


Mannequin

by CelesteIsHere



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ?not really but a little, Character Study, Gen, Hallucinations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 3 Spoilers, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, broganes, clone shiro theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteIsHere/pseuds/CelesteIsHere
Summary: Shiro startled when he saw his reflection. Wet hair to his shoulders, sunken, dark circles around his eyes; a mostly black beard sprinkled with white. It was the first time he’d really seen himself.He was scared.





	Mannequin

Something was wrong.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His uncomfortably long hair was spread out on his pillow and tickled his ears. His hands clenched and unclenched the thin sheets with shaky movements. Something was so very, very wrong, and Shiro couldn't keep blaming it on him being rattled after escaping from the Galra. It wasn't the paranoia his PTSD loved to spoonfeed him, he was sure of it. He could feel this heavy, dirty wrongness surround him and seep into his bones in a way he's never felt before.

Those things he saw as he escaped the Galra ship-- visions? Memories? Nightmares?-- another version of him, the choking pink liquid swarming him, drowning him-- what were they? He escaped so _easily_ , too. He was stumbling and disoriented, not knowing up from down until the adrenaline kicked in. Galra sentries and soldiers should have swarmed him the second he stepped out his cell. How did he even steal that fighter? And how he survived in it for a week with no food or water? He should have died on the third day, maybe sooner. None of it made sense.

Yet, there he was, lying in his bed. Fingers and bottom lip trembling, breaths shallow, and gut wrenching as his eyes darted across the details on the walls. He was alive. Maybe.

A light knock on the door made his pulse jump and shoulders tense.

“Shiro?” He heard Keith say softly, muffled by the metal between them.

Shiro sat up. “Come in,” He rasped, voice gravelly from disuse.

The door opened, and Keith stepped in, somewhat shyly. He stood a couple feet from the bed, fidgeting nervously with his hands.

“So, uh, how are you feeling? You look like crap.”

Shiro managed a half smile. He looked up at Keith and saw relief and worry on his face. “Thanks, you too,” Keith chuckled at that and crossed his arms. “And, I’m alright,” He lied. “Tired, mainly.”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t tired.”

A moment of silence passed. Keith sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and took a step forward. “What-- where--” A deep breath. “Where were you? What happened?” His voiced cracked as he spoke, and Shiro felt his heart break.

Shiro stared at the hands lying in his lap, avoiding Keith’s hurt gaze. He tried to will himself to speak, but no words came out. The truth was that he didn’t know. He didn’t remember how he got there, or what they were doing to him. He didn’t want to tell Keith that. He didn’t want to tell him anything.

“Shiro,” He heard Keith’s voice waver, then take another deep breath. “Please. What happened?”

“I, um,” He cleared his throat. “I don’t… Really remember.”

Keith was quiet a moment. “Is there anything? Anything at all you can remember?”

“I don’t know.” He said again. “The last thing I remember was Zarkon trying to overtake the Black Lion. It told me to use my bayard. Then, just… nothing. I woke up, and I was back on a Galra ship.”

“Well, you did just unlock the Black Lion’s ability to teleport. Could it have teleported you? Maybe it was trying to save you?”

Shiro looked up at him through his overly-long hair. “By teleporting me into the hands of the Galra?”

Keith’s eyes darted to the floor. “Maybe Zarkon forced it to?” He tried. “I mean, he was trying to control it until the very last moment, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.” He said dully.

“Well… if you’re feeling up to it, the rest of the team would be thrilled to see you up and around again.” He quickly changed the subject, sensing Shiro was uncomfortable. There was a beat of silence before he said with his voice low, “They need you, y’know.”

Shiro didn’t look at him. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

Keith took that as his signal to go, Shiro was obviously tired and not in a great headspace. “Okay,” He turned to leave. “We’ll be on the bridge.”

Shiro stopped him as the door opened. “Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah?”

He met his eyes, this time, a small smile playing on his lips. “How many times are you gonna have save me before this is all over?”

“As many times as it takes.” Keith said with a smile of his own. Then he was out the door.

Shiro stared blankly at the space Keith was in for a while, no thoughts crossing his mind. Soon, he felt static creep across his skin and into his peripheral vision. No, no, he wasn’t going to disappear, not now.

He scrambled together what little energy he had and pushed the blanket off him and rose to his feet. He had to channel all his focus into moving his legs to carry him to the bathroom. He peeled his sweaty tanktop and shorts off and stood under the shower head. His brain went on autopilot at that point, turning on the water, washing himself, turning off the water, and drying and dressing himself.

Shiro startled when he saw his reflection. Wet hair to his shoulders, sunken, dark circles around his eyes; a mostly black beard sprinkled with white. It was the first time he’d really seen himself.

He was scared.

That feeling was back. The feeling that dug its claws into the hollow of his bones, grazed his skin with razor-sharp hairs, and wrapped itself around his neck, choking him.

That wasn’t him in the mirror. That wasn’t him. He _knew_ what he looked like, and that wasn’t it.

He gripped the edge of the countertop, screwing his eyes closed and trying to control his quickening breaths. He felt the metal crinkle under the strong grasp of his prosthetic. Shiro flung his hand against the wall where the button for a storage compartment was.

The panel swung open. Shiro reached in and pulled out a pair of Altean scissors and hair clippers. His hands shook as he cut lengths of his hair off. When he was done, he took the clippers to the remainder of his hair to cut it as short as he could. Or at least, as close to his old hairstyle he could. He kept the white tuft, though it was shorter now.

He looked at himself again. No, no nonono. Still wrong, so wrong. He dug around in the cabinet until he found his razor and took it to his face. He cut his cheek in his haste, but he didn’t notice. The hair fell onto the counter and floor and over his bare feet. He didn’t notice.

The ache of phantom pain ran down Shiro’s right arm as he dropped the razor to the floor. He ignored it and leaned into the mirror. His raspy, quick breaths fogged up the mirror as he stared at his reflection.

What…?

What was wrong?

He didn’t see it anymore.

Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the hair. He knew it.

Shiro righted himself, spine straight, mind clearing, and breathing evening out. He decided he looked stupid with his attempt to get his old hair back. It looked better when it was longer. He brushed the hair off his shoulders and returned to his bedroom, telling himself he’d clean up the mess in the bathroom later. He pulled on a vest and pair of boots Allura had given him when he showed up in prisoner rags.

He would go to the bridge and talk to the Paladins and Alteans, he would. He stood a few steps away from the door, mind racing. What was that? Why was he fine now? What did he see in the reflection? What was-

His mind shut out the event. Shiro stood near the door a second longer in confusion, then shrugged it off and made his way to the bridge.


End file.
